The kitchen table aloft,
a commanding plateau
in shadow-shades of goose.
A sea swept fable
overlooked by a high stool
and a six year old Zeus.
Eggshells ingrain creamy caps.
A crystalline surf slaps swirly shores
Blue veins score billowing stone
deep to a watery bone.
Contours of light
shelf, trench and darkling nights
where jabborwoky roam.
A vast wave engraved realm
where pencil-thin sailors
jig, swing and swing
in a child's smudged hand.
Grand fleets stand
flogging savage coasts.
Guns hammer truculent hosts
with smokey enfilades
with odors of bacon.
Seafaring odyssey's are lost
in greasy spots,
while an embattled buccaneer
spreads his buttery art across
a voluminous chart.
Then he, the breakfast boy
bends above the roving,
the erstwhile and damned;
with a god-like hand
draws shallows, sand-bars
and reefs to swallow and then befog,
while great ships converge to rescue
a bold seaman
and his bandy-legged dog.
~~
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Rita Bourland
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Comments
thank you, sparky.